


Of Monsters, Moon, and Blood

by yonderlight



Series: Blood Moon [1]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blake is a literal puppy, Blakefield, Blood and Injury, Canon Era, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Alternating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Trench Warfare, Vampire/Werewolf AU, Werewolf!Blake, World War I, vampire!schofield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:35:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23555416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderlight/pseuds/yonderlight
Summary: An alternate history AU in which WW1 saw the first use of militarized werewolf and vampire citizens on the front. Lycanthrope soldiers such as Blake are each paired with a vampiric “Leash” like Schofield, the only ones strong enough to stop them should they turn on their own in the heat of a full moon battle...
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: Blood Moon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818862
Comments: 72
Kudos: 117





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue

_Tom is running, he’s running, and it’s freedom and energy and pure delightful, instinctual motion. He tosses his head back, relishes at the wind in his face, at the way in which his feet nearly lift off the ground. He’s moving so fast, so fast, over bright rolling fields, nothing and no one can catch him, nothing can hurt him._

_Until it does._

_The sky rapidly darkens and he stumbles, his legs aren’t working properly anymore. He’s running slow motion through water; he’s running through muck and mud, legs leaden and heavy and struggling to propel him forward. He falls down and barbed wire closes in around him, snaking across the ground like sinister living vines, coiling through the air like tentacles. They’ve got him in their terrible grasp, twisting and curling and tearing apart his flesh like snapping jaws and he screams. He howls but there’s no one to hear him, no one to answer him, and he’s alone, he’s alone..._

Blake jolts awake.

Chapter 1

Schofield equally starts awake beside him, roused by the sudden sharp intake in breath at his side. Pulling aside the cotton sun shade hanging down from under his stiff peaked cap, he readjusts his position against the tree trunk. It’s late afternoon, very nearly evening, and Schofield shifts away from the light beginning to speckle through the neighbouring trees.

The war had forced him to endure more than his fair share of punishing sunlight. It won’t kill him, but it’s an immensely uncomfortable irritant, kept at bay only by covering any and all exposed skin and seeking asylum from the sun under sheltering branches.

Schofield stares down at Blake gasping beside him. He’s still growing accustomed to him, given how they’ve been newly paired up, assigned to one another only a few moon cycles ago. _My god_ , he thinks. Has it really only been three months since he lost…?

Interrupting his thoughts, Blake lets out a single slow shaky breath from his place on the grass.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine.” Sitting up, Blake stretches out his stiff arms and loosens his neck.

He and Blake had situated themselves at a distance from the shuffle of listless activity in the camp around them. The rest of the East Surrey Regiment went about their various tasks, most also taking advantage of the relative calm granted by the daylight hours.

“Oi, dog boy!”

A rowdy collection of soldiers saunters past their place near the trees, whistling and pursing their lips together at Blake.

Laughing, one kicks over a dead rat, “Dinner for ya!”

Bristling, Blake scrambles to his feet as Schofield simultaneously rises to place himself in front of Blake's tensing form.

Schofield puts a gloved hand on his arm, unconsciously resting it on the white circle sewn between Blake’s Lance Corporal chevron and battalion patch.

Schofield tilts his head warningly to the side. “Don’t,” it’s stern, spoken under his breath.

“Keep ‘im trained real good and ready, eh Spookfield?” another one sneers. Schofield sees colour flush in Blake’s cheeks. The men bark humourously but hastily retreat when Schofield turns to fix them with a devastating glare.

He looks back at Blake, misty eyes narrowed and jaw jutted out in defiance. He roughly shrugs off Schofield’s hand.

Schofield finally breaks the silence, “They use humour to mask their fear. It’s easy to taunt you in the daylight but they wouldn’t dare be so bold tonight. Don’t let them rile you.”

Closing his eyes, Blake exhales and visibly calms himself.

“But I don’t want them to be scared of me,” he says softly, almost a whisper, casting his gaze downward at the lifeless rat near his boots.

Schofield doesn’t reply. He’s no stranger to human fear triggered by his presence and has long since adjusted to shrinking forms and anxious stares at the sight of him.

With a sigh, Schofield shoulders his rifle. It’s nearly time. The now withdrawing sun signals the upcoming attack strategically planned during April’s first full moon night. At least they both managed to catch some sleep throughout the day. Schofield knows he needs to feed soon, to garner his strength before the night’s baleful undertakings.

“I’ll return in a little while. You should get yourself some food,” Schofield motions his head toward the mess tent but sets off in the opposite direction toward the German POW encampment. Still frowning, Blake gives him a small faraway nod.

Schofield makes his way toward the enclosure, weaving around sunbeams streaking the ground as he carefully keeps to the shadows. He welcomes the relief that nightfall brings.

The two Privates guarding the entrance eye him warily. Wordlessly, Schofield taps the narrow red triangle patch on his shoulder, in the same place as Blake’s white circle, and they move aside to allow him access.

It’s Lieutenant Leslie who sees him first and he gives Schofield a happy little wave. Grinning, he gestures to the handful of Hun soldiers grouped around the small pen.

“Ah, Schofield! I’ve got quite the delectable sample platter for you tonight,” he says in a singsong voice, wagging a finger at him.

Schofield never quite knows what to make of Leslie’s humour, both morbid and hovering on the edge of deranged, but he’s thankful at least for the man’s joviality. Outright kindness towards him is a rarity here.

“Perhaps a fresh young virgin, eh?” he points to a fair-haired boy barely a day over seventeen who regards Schofield with wide, frightened eyes. “Or are you in the mood for an older, more robust vintage?” Leslie inclines his head towards a stocky mustachioed bloke sitting stiffly near a fence post.

Soundlessly, Schofield walks toward the slight blonde soldier.

“Ah, an excellent choice that!”

Schofield turns his back, out of sight from Leslie’s smirking face; he doesn’t welcome an audience for this part.

The boy starts to scramble backwards as he approaches but Schofield stills him with a piercing stare. Like a butterfly caught on a pin, the blonde stops abruptly.

“Nicht Baumer! Lass ihn in Ruhe du Teufel!” the fellow with the mustache shouts. Leslie tuts at him and shakes his head, moving a hand to rest on his sidearm in a clear threat.

Schofield ignores them both.

“There now. It’s all right. It’s all right,” he speaks slowly, his voice low. The young soldier is transfixed in place, swaying a little on his feet as he blinks slowly at Schofield. He carefully steadies one hand on the boy’s shoulder as the other gently reaches up to expose his pale throat.

Contrary to the inflammatory bias against his kind, Schofield takes no real delight in harm or violence. He’s careful to inflict as little pain as possible on the young soldier in his arms, and years of practice allows him the restraint to stop himself from draining a lethal amount. He does, however, savor the taste. The government-regulated glass bottles he used to buy in town can never hold a candle to _this_. It’s a carnal comfort, a consolation prize of his current occupation, to have a constant supply of fresh, pulsing warm blood instead of that stale liquid back home.

When he’s finished, he feels his fangs retract as he gently lowers the boy to the ground. Reaching into his pocket, he presses a small bandage against the two crimson pinpricks on his neck and watches as the blonde’s eyes flutter open.

It’s nearly dark now. Walking back to the entryway, Schofield senses a host of apprehensive eyes trained on his back as he tugs off his gloves and sun shade.

Leslie lights a cigarette. “Until next time my fastidious fanged friend!” he shouts after him.

Schofield makes his way back to the tree to find Blake in the same spot where he left him. His helmet, boots, and puttees lie in a heap at his feet and he’s in the process of unlatching his belt and webbing when he spies Schofield approaching.

“Did you eat?” Schofield asks him.

Blake shakes his head, “No. It helps me to focus if I’m hungry when…” he trails off. Schofield simply nods.

Blake shivers as trembling hands start to undo the leather buttons on his jerkin and Schofield knows it’s not the cold that causes him to shake. When he’s stripped down to only his trousers and id tags around his neck, Blake takes off in the direction toward the trenches.

With Schofield trailing behind, Blake makes his way to the front in uncharacteristic silence. He can’t help but notice Blake’s racing heartbeat and the goose pimples on his flesh. Blake is very nearly sprinting by the time the sky above them darkens into an inky blue twilight.

When they finally arrive at Paradise Alley, Schofield moves to position himself in between Blake and the other infantrymen. Fixing his bayonet while Blake feverishly removes the last of his clothing, Schofield takes stock of their surroundings.

“Considerate of you to finally join us, lads,” Sergeant Sanders remarks dryly.

“Sorry, Sir.” Schofield looks back at Blake who doesn’t respond. He’s hunched over now, eyes screwed shut and breathing heavily, one palm splayed out on the muddy wall in front of him.

Schofield feels the soldiers to his left flinch when Blake releases a choked moan. The ones crouched beside Schofield make a motion to shuffle further away and even Sanders takes a small step backwards.

The Sergeant tears his eyes away from Blake to look at Schofield. He clears his throat, “Right then. You already know the plan; you’re on Leash duty tonight as usual. Make sure he heads south and keep him out of trouble.”

He nods, Schofield knows his job well. It’s remained a well-known military strategy, implemented since the start of the war, to pair a Lycanthrope with a Hematophagic handler, a Leash, the only ones strong enough to stop a raging wolf from attacking their own. Both of their kind are damn near invincible and almost impossible to kill by either shell blast or bullet, save for a well-placed beheading, a snapped neck, or the like. That, plus an assortment of heightened senses, made them far superior soldiers to their human counterparts. The German Army had first thought to harness this manpower among their registered citizens and the BEF quickly followed suit, also believing that Lycos could be tamed and molded to serve the cause. They employed them during full moon nights, a volatile cannon shot blindly at the enemy; a lethal primal force barely kept in check.

Schofield loads his rifle. Blake is convulsing now, his light naked skin a stark contrast to the surrounding French soil. He shudders in the moonlight as small cries escape from his mouth. Brunette fur erupts at his shifting spine, its growth cascading down his back and over his arms, legs, and a now protruding tail. Schofield wants to give him privacy, wants to cover this terrible moment with any shroud of dignity, however small, but he knows his eyes must never leave Blake, not even for a second. Too many lives are counting on his watchfulness.

Mercifully, the entire process is over soon enough. Blake’s new form emerges, limbs stretched and folded into a different shape, face elongated into a snout. The wavy brown of his thick furred hide almost disappears into the muddy darkness, save for two brilliant blue eyes shining back at Schofield.

With sharp claws digging into the mud, Blake throws back his head and howls. It’s positively thunderous; and Schofield doesn’t fail to sense the elevated heart rates of the men next to him, he even smells a bit of piss.

A distant howl from the German front line answers Blake’s call and its soon joined by a second, slightly higher-pitched bay.

“Ho, ho, sounds like the Hun have a couple of war dogs of their own tonight!” one of the Privates remarks. Schofield’s brow furrows in worry, he doesn’t like those odds.

Next to him, Blake runs frantic circles in the narrow trench lane. It’s almost comedic in a way, and Schofield is reminded of a dog chasing its own tail. But any remaining lighthearted thoughts are quickly dashed aside when Blake stops to flash long, sharp canines and let out a sinister snarl.

The sudden sound of three whistle blasts and commanding shouts from down the line fill the air as the trench explodes into chaotic momentum and their company clamors over the top.

Ears pressed flat, Blake takes a step back and then abruptly sails over the trench wall in two easy bounds, kicking off over the edge with his hind legs. Schofield curses quietly, still fumbling with the unused dog whistle around his neck, and gracefully thrusts himself up and over in pursuit…

…to find only the retreating forms of soldiers in front of him.

Where the devil is Blake?

Schofield hears panting to his right and spots him, a tortoiseshell blur, running parallel to the trench and back towards the trees. He dashes after him, blowing into his whistle. Blake flinches and pauses just long enough for Schofield to leap in front of him.

“Stop! Blake, stop!” He holds out his hands, palms open and facing Blake, and approaches him carefully. Schofield meets his eyes, stares pointedly into them, willing him to stay still.

“Stop. That’s it,” his voice is low and soft.

Blake growls at first but slowly begins backing up. Schofield hates this with every fiber in his being. Hates the look of confused animal desperation in Blake’s eyes, hates that he has to be the one to force him back towards violent carnage.

“We have to go back.”

Schofield knows there is a shower of wolfsbane-laced bullets awaiting Lycos who run and a sharp guillotine blade for their Leashes who let them out of their sight. Many a wolf has been caught the next morning, naked, crying and pleading, with the moon’s healing protection diminished in the daylight, thus allowing the rare poison time to take hold in their bodies when they’re cast before the firing squad. It’s a slow and painful death. And if they do manage to get away… few can bear to live with their partner’s blood on their hands, left behind and executed alone in their stead.

“We have to go back,” Schofield repeats.

For a split second, Blake appears to understand. Then the world suddenly shatters around them as a shell explodes nearby.

They’re both thrown to the ground. But Blake is quick to scramble back onto his paws and sprints with energized panic across No Man’s Land, leaping across obstacles and dodging crater holes with ease.

Schofield, still winded from the blast, watches as Blake makes his way toward a cluster of advancing Hun soldiers. He takes hold of one by the neck, clamping down with fierce teeth. Shakes him twice and then tosses the limp body aside like a stuffed toy.

Taking a knee, Schofield raises his rifle.

With his keen eyes sharp even in almost total darkness and reflexes primed and swift, most nights Schofield is far more deadly with a firearm than with his own fangs and hands. He seizes any chance to avoid close combat if he can.

Even at this distance without a scope, he skillfully takes down the three other Germans surrounding Blake.

Rising to his feet, he observes Blake stopping to sniff one of the motionless boots attached to a dead Boche. Then suddenly, a flurry of movement on the left flank catches Schofield’s eye.

It’s another Lyco, one slightly smaller than Blake and tawny in colour. A female. She barrels through a row of British soldiers, brutally knocking them to the ground as muzzle flashes pop off around her. Unhindered, she gallops towards an oblivious Blake. He’s still preoccupied, nosing around the four bodies, his snout poking inside a Stahlhelm helmet.

“No!”

 _Bloody idiot._ Schofield’s footfalls are as agile as they are rapid. The greys and browns of No Man’s Land streak sideways in his peripheral vision as he zigzags hastily around obstructions, eyes darting back and forth between Blake and the tan wolf. She reaches Blake first, but instead of attacking him she grips one of the lifeless Hun’s shoulders in her jaws, dragging him back in the direction of the German trenches. Blake snarls and chomps down on a leg, resulting in a macabre tug-of-war.

Schofield finally closes the remaining distance, slamming his weight into her side. She yelps, releasing the body. And all too late, Schofield is suddenly aware of a third Lyco towering over him.

He’s a massive brute, grey on top and tawny at his underbelly and legs. Teeth snapping viciously at his throat, he pins Schofield into the mud. Schofield feels his fangs come out defensively and he bares his own teeth trying to wrestle the wolf’s maw away from his neck.

With a low growl Blake knocks the larger male off. But before Schofield can stand, the female latches onto his side with her teeth and flings him into a deep shell crater.

Schofield lies there wheezing, half submerged in the murky water, out of breath and bleeding. His canvas pack caught the worst brunt of her incisors, but she still managed to break the skin and crack a rib or two. He’s not sure where his rifle landed. Releasing his shredded webbing and crawling out on his hands and knees, Schofield sees that the fight is now two on one. Blake spins around frantically, fending off attacks from both sides as the male and female circle him menacingly.

Schofield registers with grim certainty that their Leashes can’t be far behind.

Blake yelps when the tawny female tackles him to the ground. Quick to react, Schofield leaps on top of the large grey wolf before he can follow suit. He’s very nearly bucked off but Schofield fiercely grasps his furred head in between his hands and twists it sharply until he hears a snap. The male collapses from under him.

Schofield turns around just in time to watch as the tan wolf tears into Blake’s front leg. He cries out as his blood splatters across her muzzle and when she finally releases, it’s hanging grotesquely at an awkward angle.

“Blake!” Before Schofield can make a motion towards him, the battlefield is filled with the chorus of whistles. The Germans are retreating.

Whimpering in distress, Blake tries to limp away but he stumbles and falls in the slick mud.

Head raised now, the female finally notices the stationary male crumpled on his side. She howls as if in pain, futilely trying to drag him back with her, as she did before with the dead soldier, but the high-pitched sound of dog whistles becomes more urgent. Schofield spies two men approaching in the distance, Leashes no doubt, here to finally retrieve their Lycos.

With the tawny wolf distracted, Schofield hurries over to Blake. Ignoring the pain in his side, he tries to haul him up, allowing Blake to lean against his shoulder.

They hobble like that across No Man’s Land for a long while, with Schofield trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the female. He hopes that she returns to her Leash rather than decide to give chase.

Without warning, a shell detonates close to them and Schofield is once again forcefully thrown to the ground. He gathers himself back up to watch as Blake pitifully scrabbles at the dirt with his three good legs, dragging himself in a lopsided circle.

Schofield attempts to heave him onto his paws as he did before, but a terrified Blake blind with panic frantically rakes long claws across his back.

Schofield screams.

He sinks to his knees, red stars blossoming behind his eyes, as he faintly registers the nearby sound of Blake’s whimpers. Still in searing pain, he lifts his head.

Blake has managed to nestle himself into a nearby shallow crater, pressed up and huddled against a damaged tank.

He uncurls himself ever so slightly when Schofield crawls towards him. Taking care to read his body language this time, Schofield cautiously holds out his hand, allowing Blake to sniff and drag a wet tongue across his fingers.

He whines. Some part of him seems to understand what he’s done.

Schofield slowly turns his back to Blake, “It’s alright, see? I’m already getting better.” It’s the truth; he can feel his wounds starting to close. The pain in his abdomen has significantly lessened too. But Schofield knows this close to sunrise it will take Blake a bit longer than him to heal and he’s still in no shape to carry him.

Rising shakily to his feet, Schofield stands guard over Blake, eyes scanning the horizon. They’re over halfway across No Man’s Land, but still a little ways from their own front line. Schofield looks back in the opposite direction, there’s no sign of the female or the two German Leashes. Adrenaline very nearly depleted, he feels his fangs finally retract up into his mouth.

Some time later, Schofield squints against the harsh dawn breaking out over the battered landscape and he flinches as a burning ray of golden light lands on his face. This will not do.

Looking around him, he fortuitously discovers the tattered remains of a tarpaulin hanging off a patch of nearby barbed wire. It’s just enough to wrap around his head and neck with some left over for Blake.

Schofield finally hears him stirring below. There’s tired, half-human whimpers drifting out of the shell hole and Schofield steals a glance down. Blake is shaking, albeit less violently than before, crouched on newly re-formed hands and knees. He’s surrounded by a mess of shed fur, some of it still tumbling down off his back and chest. His hair is roughly tousled and he’s covered head to toe in various shades of mud, its colour nearly matching his aforementioned fur. There’s still quite a bit of blood dripping down from his lower forearm, but the bones seem to have reset back into their proper shape.

Blake lifts his head at Schofield.

“Good-morning,” he croaks and gives Schofield a subtle smirk, the corner of his mouth barely twitching. Exhaustion weighs heavily under his usually bright eyes. Blake rolls onto his side, closing his eyes, and heaves a shuddering breath. Schofield settles down next to him.

“How do you feel?”

Blake cracks open a single eyelid and scrunches his nose in answer.

“Do you have any water?” he asks Schofield.

“No.”

“Well, do you have any food?” Blake props himself up on his good elbow.

“No. And even if I still had my pack, which I don’t, I don’t carry a mess tin or rations.”

“Oh…yeah. Forgot.” Blake falls silent.

“Here,” Schofield hands him the rest of the ripped canvas he found earlier, “for our trek back. It’s the best I could do.”

Blake’s face softens and he takes the cloth in his hand. Moving to stand, he gasps when he puts weight on his hurt arm. He stares at the wound bewildered.

“We ran into a Hun Lyco. Two actually,” Schofield offers. Blake cradles his arm against his chest as Schofield helps him up to his feet. Taking the tarpaulin scrap, Schofield assists him in wrapping it around his waist. Blake gasps for a second time when his eyes land on Schofield’s back.

“What was it?” Blake’s bottom lip quivers slightly as his brows furrow and something changes in his eyes. “Was it me?” his voice cracks a little on the last word.

“Yes,” Schofield answers quietly. He can’t bring himself to lie to Blake. “But you didn’t mean to.”

Blake asks him no further questions about the prior night.

Together, they guardedly creep back toward the Allied front in the early morning fog, obscured from the heedful eyes of enemy snipers; and Schofield feels something like defeat weighing heavily on his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe @thenightwindow my life for being such an incredible beta, and special thanks to @schratfield and @thusfeathered for supplying my brain with visual inspiration for this AU with their lovely art!


	2. Chapter 2

Slipping carefully through a break in the wire, Blake and Schofield arrive back at the front line. Schofield gracefully slides into the trench first and then offers up his hand to help Blake down.

Blake descends, immediately self-conscious at the sea of eyes waiting for him below, and he feels his cheeks and the tips of his ears grow hot. For this was a different kind of vulnerability than one typically encountered in the army, different than groups of men bathing together or squatting shoulder to shoulder at the latrine. It’s not his modesty that’s bruised, for Blake was never one to be shy about his body, but his pride. He hates how they regard him like some monstrous curiosity, at best a dumb pet, at worst something dangerous and less than human.

Wanting something to do with his hands, Blake smooths down the makeshift canvas wraparound and tries to remember where he left his trousers. He suddenly sees a flash of blue grey uniform slacks in his mind’s eye, feels his jaws clamped around a leg…

He shakes his head as if to clear the image from his mind and runs his fingers through his hair. Blake doesn’t want to remember any of it. If he were to concentrate hard enough though, memories from the night before would reveal themselves like fragmented dreams or like hazy scenes clouded by alcohol from a night of drinking. But ever since his conscription he desperately tries to forget upon changing. Resolutely attempting to stamp it from his mind, most days following a full moon he refuses to recall his activities from the night prior.

Falling in line in the narrow comms trench, Blake follows wearily behind Schofield, his brain still sluggish and muddled. He tries to train his eyes on anything else but the large rips slashed through Schofield’s uniform layers, revealing tender skin and dried blood beneath. But it’s no use; it’s all he can look at and another deep flash of shame rises up in his throat.

Stumbling on uneven duckboard, a wave of dizziness washes over him. Schofield casts him a look over his shoulder.

It’s no surprise he feels so weak, the change always takes so much out of him, as shifting into an entirely new form burns through an enormous amount of energy. God, he’s properly starved. And his throat burns with dryness.

Blake tries to focus on the simple action of walking straight and moving forward, but he can’t help realizing that there's something stuck between his teeth. He pulls it out with a dirty fingernail and sees raw pink flesh. He doesn’t want to think about whom it used to belong to…

He hopes that some poor soul didn’t become his dinner last night, but his aching stomach and hunger-induced lightheadedness supports his hypothesis that it was a relatively slow night.

He has no taste for killing, not really anyway. As a teenager, he eventually learned to enjoy the thrill of taking down the occasional deer or wild boar with the pack at his side. But he’ll never forget the time he killed his first rabbit when he was a child. Joe and his mother had first thought he was merely showing off his trophy from the way he had gone on carrying it around with him all night. But once the sun came up, he couldn’t stop crying, still horrified by its awful stillness and the cruel red streaks on its fur.

His mother tried a new tactic after that. In the daylight, she took to hiding bits of food around the grounds in an effort to keep him occupied after the change, a chicken thigh in the bushes one night, a cow bone in the cherry orchard another night. Eventually Tom came to learn that he wasn’t prone to hunt if he started the change on a full stomach. So his mother elected to make sure he was always well fed before moon nights. Unfortunately, this proved unhelpful to Joe, who always immediately retched whatever he had been given as soon as the change took hold, the poor bastard. Blake wonders wistfully how Joe was faring this morning, miles away with another regiment in some other part of France...

Roused from his thoughts, Blake stumbles again. Energy all but depleted, he feels another wave of fatigue engulf him. There’s suddenly a ringing in his ears as the trench walls swirl and tilt around him. He’s faintly aware of two hands reaching out to catch him before he hits the ground and his vision fades to black.

It’s the rustling sound of branches that he hears first, and Blake wakes up in the grass to find himself covered by a full tarpaulin tucked in around his sides. His hastily discarded uniform pieces and kit bag are now neatly folded and placed in a tidy pile next to him, complete with the trousers and drawers he had previously left in the trench.

Smelling bully beef in the mess tin placed near his head, he hungrily pries off the metal lid to shovel large spoonfuls into his mouth. He pauses only to take a sip of water from his canteen, delighting at finding its contents full.

Schofield is in his usual spot leaning up against the tree trunk. Clad in his wool greyback and cap affixed with its cloth neck guard, his gloved hands nimbly push a needle and thread through the uniform tunic in his lap.

“Someone’s been busy,” Blake remarks cheekily. Truth be told, he’s enormously touched by Schofield’s thoughtfulness.

Schofield doesn’t look up from his sewing, “You’ve been asleep for most of the day.”

Blake hums and unwraps the bandage he discovers around his arm. Finding the skin fully healed, he flexes his wrist and elbow. Satisfied, he resumes eating, and as he’s draining the rest of his canteen, Blake hears footsteps in the grass and smells the distinct odor of Sergeant Sanders.

“Attack’s been called off tonight, boys.” He looks at Blake, “They’re having a pen fixed up for ya on the north side as we speak. Should be ready soon enough.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

Blake feels a mix of emotions wash over him; relief at not returning to the front but also apprehension at being caged up. He heard once that Lycos in London were forced to lock themselves in crates during moon nights, or at least, the ones not able to afford to take three days off of work to travel outside the city. He was privileged to live out in the countryside with the rest of his pack where Lycos were largely left alone, so long as they didn’t hurt anyone or harm any livestock.

He catches Schofield looking at him when Sanders walks away.

“I wonder why we’re not going over tonight?” Blake muses. Schofield simply shrugs and goes back to repairing his shirt.

Blake wolfs down the rest of his rations as the sun drifts lower in the sky. When he’s finished, he looks over at Schofield, “Reckon we should head over then?” He’s getting restless, he can’t help it. He wants to _move_ , feels the moon approaching like a fluttering in his stomach and like a tickle in his spine.

“Alright,” Schofield bites the thread with his teeth and shrugs on his newly mended tunic.

Blake looks down at himself; he’s positively filthy, Jesus he wishes he could bathe, and he’s still wearing the tattered loincloth from earlier. Rising from the ground, he swaps the tarpaulin scrap for his trousers in preparation for their walk across camp, and then extends a hand down to Schofield. Meeting his eyes, Schofield takes it and together they trudge over well-trampled grass and dirt.

There’s several Privates still assembling the makeshift pen when they arrive, it’s about twelve meters in diameter and predominantly constructed out of barbed wire. Overseen by Lieutenant Leslie, he puffs on a cigarette while he points to one of the men carrying a screw-picket.

“Kilgour! Are you daft? I said the _right_ side! Bring it over on the right!” He shakes his head in frustration but instantly brightens when he sees Blake and Schofield.

Leslie puts a hand on Blake’s bare shoulder, “Fancy a moonlit stroll tonight, lad? Quite relaxing if you ask me.”

Blake twists his face and tries not to squirm under his hand. Leslie always smelled like sour wine and something akin to earwax and Blake found him to be insufferable more often than not.

“Shall I fetch you a Boche chew toy for this evening? A little something to take the edge off?”

“No!” Blake exclaims. “Sir,” he hastily adds.

Leslie chuckles, “Suit yourself then.” He turns his attention back to the pen and Blake finds Schofield staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

“I’ll be alright. I don’t bloody need to-” he exhales. “Look here.” Spying a branch on the ground, Blake picks it up and hands it to Schofield.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Listen, you just need to keep me _distracted_ is all!” Blake feels his cheeks flush. “I’ll be alright,” he repeats.

Doubtful, Schofield takes hold of the branch.

Not wanting to admit to Schofield about his own reservations, Blake heads over to the pen.

As the barbed wire fills his vision, he’s struck with a bitter pang of homesickness. He dreadfully misses his mother, misses Joe, and loathes having to bear moon nights on his own. Without his family he feels…adrift. Out here, with anxiety and fear dialed to extremes, it’s been difficult to remain anchored after the change. When Blake goes over the top it’s all he can do to give in to simple impulses, to fall back on his military training. He thinks back to his time at basic with the other Lycos. How they refused them mess rations before moon nights and set them loose, starved and frantic, in a large enclosure unofficially called the Chicken Coop. Defenseless death row inmates, and sometimes POWs, awaited them inside, where high body counts were rewarded and refusal to participate was harshly, and swiftly, punished. For nearly all of the Lycos there, it was their first taste of human blood.

“In you go, there’s a good chap,” Leslie motions Blake inside. “Do try to leave poor Lance Corporal Schofield’s uniform intact this time, hm? The quartermaster is rather running out of thread and my socks still need mending.”

Blake feels his hackles rise.

“Isn’t that right, Kilgour?”

“Yes, sir. Happy to darn socks, sir.” A small face pops out from behind the far side of the pen.

Blake watches as Schofield steps inside behind him and the other Privates set to work sealing the last gap left in the wire enclosure.

“I’ll send out a sapper in the morning to cut you free. Goodnight, gentlemen,” he waves them off.

Blake is more than happy to see Leslie go. He takes a small hop and paces a little in place, clenching and unclenching his fists. He can already feel his skin crawling; can start to feel his muscles tensing and quivering as the dusk horizon is awash with blue and indigo. Turning his back to Schofield, he slips out of his trousers and tosses them to the side with shaking hands.

A part of him is eager for the change. He embraces the emotional simplicity it brings, how his usually crowded, racing thoughts fall away to reveal simple instinct. The world narrows into uncomplicated concepts, into merely action and reaction. It’s a violent form of peace, a more lucid method of survival, untarnished by human complexities.

When the first cascade of spasms racks his body, Blake attempts to focus amidst the oncoming discomfort. _Calm. Stay calm tonight. Schofield is a friend… a friend… friendly… friend.._. He repeats it in his mind like a mantra, like how his mother taught him to concentrate on a certain thought, on a feeling, right before the change, to carry it with him to the other side.

Crying out suddenly, Blake begins to feel bones shifting and skin stretching with each wave of tremors. There’s a single flash of blinding pain that only lasts an instant before he slips into a state of semi-consciousness, as a different awareness is superimposed upon the other, rising up and overwhelming him.

He blinks and it’s like waking up.

His knows his person is nearby but he doesn’t care. He wants to run, run, _run_. He dashes around the perimeter of the bothersome enclosure, trying to find an opening. There is none, he’s trapped.

He suddenly hears rumbling in the distance. Dig! He needs to hide, needs to burrow down. _Down_. Burrow down away from the open surface, away from the noise, away from the danger… His paws move rapidly and sharp claws tear into the dirt. _Dig_.

A sharp whistle interrupts his frenzied activity and he knows this means _stop_. He turns to look back at his person. Softly glowing red eyes fill his entire vision and he can’t look away. They edge closer. He hears soothing sounds being spoken to him that he can’t fully understand, but he comprehends their basic meaning. He recognizes one of the noises…“Blake…” and a hand is offered out to him. He knows this scent, it’s safe, friendly. After a moment, the hand reaches out to gingerly pet the top of his head. _Friend._

The distant thunder returns and his whine becomes a vicious growl. The hand withdraws. He snaps his jaws at the air and he paces, he doesn’t want to be here in this place, where everything is wrong and sharp and loud and foreign. Where he is packless and _alone_...

Suddenly, a thump. Something lands in the grass beside him and he goes to investigate. It’s a part of a tree but it smells like his person, did they lose this? He brings it back to them.

They throw it to the opposite side of the pen and he can’t help but chase after it. He brings it back again, and again.

He likes this, the reassuring repetitive motion, the bolt of energy, and then the feeling of satisfaction from his person. _Friend…._

When Blake is finally aware of himself again, he opens bleary eyes against golden, early morning sunlight. Wanting nothing more than to march straight to the mess tent, his fatigue is at war with his hunger. He ultimately gives in to exhaustion, and as the last residual tremors subside, he collapses back to the ground.

Through closed eyes, he hears the soft sound of Schofield’s boots treading on grass and the rustling of clothing being placed on the ground next to him.

“Good-morning, Blake.”

“’mornin',” he rasps. His mouth feels like sandpaper.

There’s something prickly at his cheek and Blake raises his head to find himself surrounded by a mess of splinters and various sized wood chips.

Schofield is quick with an answer before Blake even asks the question.

“Your branch only lasted about halfway through the night before you took it upon yourself to make mincemeat of it.”

“So my idea _did_ work after all, then?” Blake probes, brushing off stray hairs and wood shards from his torso before reaching for his trousers.

“Yes,” Schofield's mouth upturns into a small smile, “I suppose it did.”

Blake cheerfully grins and a huff of laughter escapes from his mouth. It strikes him that this is the first time he’s ever seen Schofield smile. He hopes it’s not the last. Blake realizes he hasn’t felt this untroubled after a moon night since before the war.

As Blake is sliding his braces over his shoulders, the shrill twang of wire-cutters parting metal announces their freedom.

Fuck, he’s eager for breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this fic in any way, please consider dropping a comment! I’m honestly having a little bit of trouble finding motivation to finish this story, and your comments fuel me when I’m struggling through a creative block.
> 
> As always, @thenightwindow is a marvelous writing goddess who has blessed me with her time and energy to beta this chapter <3


	3. Chapter 3

“Are you quite certain you can manage on your own without a fainting spell this time?” Schofield casts a rueful glance over at Blake who is donning his uniform shirt at their usual spot beneath the trees.

“ _Quite_ certain!” he grins, playfully parroting Schofield’s words. It warms Schofield’s heart to see him so buoyant this morning. If he’s being honest, he’s a bit taken back by how fond he’s grown of Blake over the past three months.

“Well, try not to knock anyone over in your haste to reach the stew pot,” Schofield says wryly.

Blake beams back at him, “Is that humour I sense? From _you_? Mercy me.” Throwing on his leather jerkin, he stoops down to pick up his mess tin. He nods at Schofield in mock seriousness, “I shall do my best.”

Chuckling, Blake walks away and Schofield is left with the ghost of his own smile teased on his lips. It fades slowly in the wake of Blake’s departure.

After a beat, he settles onto the ground and busies himself with his kit. Appetite reduced in the bright daylight, Schofield will feed later when the sun starts to set. He realizes he should also try to steal a bit of sleep before this evening, so he plans to rest once Blake returns.

Unlike their adjacent human soldiers, the strict regimen of army life was relaxed slightly during the mornings and afternoons of full moon nights. Schofield understands they’ll both return to regularly enforced schedules and labour duties after tonight though. So he tries to take advantage of this small rest period, of enjoying the privilege to be the master of his own time, while he can.

He rummages through his haversack, nimble fingers searching for the texture of stationary and the shape of a pencil nub. Finding them at the bottom, he settles down against the tree trunk and brings his legs up to his chest. He balances the paper on his thigh, pencil hovering just above the page, and not for the first time he finds himself at a loss for words.

Schofield knows he should reach out to his parents, knows how eager his concerned sister is for any news from him. Her Sanguis Year ceremony is fast approaching; soon she’ll be celebrating her coming-of-age rite, adorned in some beautiful evening dress surrounded by their extended family beneath gleaming city lights. He wants to write them, he does. But every pencil stroke feels insurmountable, every blank page a void he cannot traverse, and he’s paralyzed by the irresolution and facade of it all. He doesn’t want to tarnish this upcoming lavish occasion with either melancholic writings or forced platitudes. But how can he pretend to inhabit any sort of civilized normalcy while they blindly go about their lives, wholly unaware of this savage alternate world he occupied at the front?

His father, stiff and old-fashioned, over a hundred years old in age, thought the whole blasted war quite distasteful well before Will shipped off. He later scoffed at the notion of Will cohabitating with both Lycos and humans in such close conditions.

“They’re feral and undignified, the entire lot of them. And what benefit can come out of this conflict? It certainty won’t win us the vote. This war won’t do a lick of good for our kind in the slightest, I can tell you that much.” He leaned forward, swirling blood around in his ornate drinking glass before gesturing at Will, “William, you’d best do to mind your back around that sort.”

Not that Schofield had any choice in the matter. But despite himself, he’d slowly done more than simply tolerate his Lycanthrope pairings. With Blake at his side, he was starting to feel less isolated, less like a shadow dwelling silently on the outskirts. Notwithstanding his initial reservations, he muses to himself what his father would think of the fact that Schofield had come to appreciate their company.

Pencil still frozen against paper, he’s abruptly reminded of his first Lyco partner before Blake. It’s been three months since the incident and he’s still unable to bring himself to write to Jondalar’s family.

With a heavy sigh, Schofield extends his legs out and proceeds to tuck all of the writing materials back inside his kit bag. He promises himself that he’ll find the motivation to finally wish his sister a happy Sanguis Year and all the good tidings he can muster at a later date. As for Jondalar’s family…perhaps some things are better left unsaid after all.

Resigned, Schofield instead takes out a small piece of circular scrap metal and begins etching onto it with his knife. Found sparkling amidst the rubble of a bombed French village a few weeks ago, he’s taken to carting it around with him as a sort of totem. The intricately engraved designs came later; merely something meditative he could do with his hands when sleep eluded him.

“Blimey, I’m sick of these horrid biscuits. Be grateful _you_ don’t have to eat them. Hard as bloody rocks, they are.”

Blake suddenly plops down next to him and Schofield is startled out of his reverie.

Nose scrunched dramatically in disgust, Blake gnaws at the remains of a hard square biscuit in his hand while Schofield quietly puts his items away.

“What have you got there?” Blake leans to the side, craning his neck in Schofield’s direction.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” squinting up wearily at the bright sky, he’s suddenly all too aware of his own fatigue.

“I’m going to get some shut eye,” settling back against the tree, Schofield arranges the sun shade around his face and pulls his cap down.

Mouth still full of crumbs, Blake bobs his head up and down, “Sure, sure. And I need to go for a Jimmy Riddle.” And just as quickly as he had crashed down onto the grass, Blake’s already back on his feet, striding off towards the latrine.

Schofield opens one eye to watch him leave, grinning inwardly at the flurry of restless activity that was Thomas Blake.

He eventually drifts off into a fitful sleep that’s interrupted several times throughout the day: once by Blake’s return, another time by a group of Privates loudly unloading equipment, and again by the curt arrival of Sergeant Sanders.

“Well lads, looks like you’re getting another jolly evening of peace and quiet. There isn’t going to be an attack tonight after all.”

“Yes, sir,” Schofield responds.

“That’s awfully strange init Sarge, two nights in row…?” mouth agape, Blake casts a perplexed look in Sanders’ direction. Schofield knows better than to speculate idly on the plans of superior officers, but he can’t help silently agreeing that this is rather odd.

“Yes, well, I’m sure the brass hats will give you ample opportunity to sink your teeth into some Boche meat next month, Blake. You’re to report to the pen at nineteen hundred hours, boys.”

Blake drops his gaze, “Yes, Sarge.”

He’s still staring at the ground with unfocused eyes after Sanders walks away.

Schofield gives his side a nudge, “I suppose we’ll need to find you another distraction tonight, hm?”

Nodding, Blake looks up and returns his smile.

Having already fed at the POW camp before nightfall, Schofield settles himself inside the barbed wire enclosure. He places the horse bone he retrieved earlier from one of the cooks off to the side.

Watching him, Blake gives him a sheepish grin, “My mum used to do this sort of thing for me. Trouble was, Joe’d often find the damn thing first before I could get a go. Or sometimes mum would nick it for herself when we both weren’t looking! Gave us quite the chase out in the orchard, even for her age, bless her.” He laughs, and Schofield chuckles along with him, completely smitten by Blake’s infectious smile.

Growing reflective, Blake looks away. “Thank you,” he says softly. His eyes flicker up at Schofield, “With you here, I feel a bit more…stable.”

Something warm and earnest swells inside Schofield’s chest. This is only their third moon cycle together, he still scarcely knows this man, this _boy_ , but he wants to tell Blake that he feels the same; he wants to tell him how he’d do anything to chase away the sorrow that lurks behind Blake’s radiant eyes. But the moon doesn’t give him the chance to answer and Blake is already turning his back, shuddering violently as he lurches away.

The night passes much the same as the previous one, and Schofield allows himself to relax as he tosses the bone for Blake to catch midair. It’s a nearly an hour before stand-to-arms, however, when the unsettling sound of a distant howl pierces the night air.

Ears alert and pricked in the direction of No Man’s Land, Blake remains completely still for a few seconds before he throws back his head and answers. The far off howling continues, causing Blake to suddenly become frantic. He releases a low whine while pacing anxiously near the far side of the enclosure.

Exhaling through his nose, Schofield walks over to the opposite end to pick up the now discarded horse bone. But when he spins around, he’s left staring dumbly at a pile of upheaved dirt near the barbed wire and an empty pen. Blake is gone.

 _Blake is gone._

Eyes wide with fear, Schofield sprints over to the newly formed tunnel. Quickly dropping on his stomach to crawl under the gap between the ground and wire, his ears are met with the sound of men’s screams before he emerges on the other side.

The camp is utter pandemonium.

Blake barrels through one of the nearby tents, sending men scattering in all directions as the structure partially collapses. He bursts through a slit in the thrashing canvas, only to cause a second wave of destruction as he knocks over a vat of boiling water, sending several screaming soldiers tumbling into the scalding liquid.

Reaching for the whistle around his neck, Schofield pushes his way through the impeding flood of bodies as he desperately tries to reach Blake.

“Schofield! _Schofield_!” a disheveled Leslie, face pale and shirt half-unbuttoned, points to him through the mass of fleeing men.

“Get him under control this _instant_!”

Leslie roughly hauls a flailing soldier to his feet, “And for fucks sake, Kilgour, go and fetch the tranquilizer!”

Blowing into his dog whistle, Schofield scans the tumultuous crowd for a telltale flash of brunette fur. His searching eyes find Blake at last.

Ears pressed back and snarling, he’s crouched near a stationary lorry. Blake swivels his head, still trying to find the source of the whistle, and eventually notices a terrified young Private standing with his back pressed against the motorcar. The Private defensively holds one arm out in front while the other one reaches for his knife. But before Schofield can reach them, Blake tears into the soldier’s outstretched limb with his teeth, ripping off his hand in a spray of blood.

“No!” Schofield shouts.

“Not _me_ you git, give it to _Schofield_!” Schofield stops and turns at the sound of his name to find Kilgour running towards him with a large syringe. He snatches it from Kilgour’s hands like a relay baton and then dashes over to the lorry.

Crying out in agony, the Private clutches his bloodied stump and scrambles out of the way as Schofield wrestles Blake to the ground. Blake fiercely writhes beneath his grasp, yelping and thrashing about in the dirt. Legs wrapped around his midsection, Schofield finally manages to strike Blake’s hide with the syringe, plunging the needle into his skin. With a mangled whimper, his struggling grows weaker until eventually Blake collapses.

Breathing heavily, Schofield is left untangling his limbs from Blake’s body as Lieutenant Leslie approaches them. He nonchalantly pulls out a cigarette and a Lucifer from his breast pocket as he toes his boot at one of Blake’s paws.

“Well, he’s certainly going to feel that in the morning.”

Not wanting to take any chances, Schofield returns to the pen, dragging Blake underneath the gap and then kicking the pile of dirt back into the borrow. Blake is still knocked out cold by the time the sun rises and the change takes hold. And Schofield’s heart clenches at the sight of him convulsing unconscious in the dirt, appearing for all the world like he’s having some terrible mutated seizure. He knows the sedative will still be in his system for quite a while.

When the tremors finally cease and Blake is still, Schofield approaches his naked body slumped boorishly on the ground. Before he can change his mind, he maneuvers Blake’s legs into his uniform trousers and heaves them up around his waist. He’s not entirely sure what his mental state will be when he awakens, but at least Blake needn’t worry about his physical decency.

Steeling his nerves and sitting back on the opposite side of the enclosure, Schofield watches Blake’s bare chest rise and fall as sunlight begins to seep in through the wire’s twisted lattice.

A short while later, Blake abruptly stands without warning. He takes two staggering steps away from Schofield and then promptly falls back to the ground. Groaning, he flops over to his knees and vomits into the grass.

“Wot’s happened,” his words are slurred.

“You broke loose into the camp and you’ve been drugged.” It’s unclear if Blake registers any of his words. His pupils are dilated and his head lolls to the side as he turns to look at Schofield.

“Wa…” Schofield’s not sure if Blake’s asking ‘what’ or ‘why’.

Blake stands up again and takes another step forward. Swaying, he throws one leg out but the momentum swings it across his body and he falls down backwards. He does a sort of aborted summersault on the ground, managing to roll onto his back. The whole endeavor absurdly reminds Schofield of a Charlie Chaplin picture he once saw on leave.

With stubborn determination, Blake tries to get to his feet a third time but Schofield is already at his side now, helping him up.

Wearing a loopy grin, he rests bleary eyes on Schofield’s face. “Wanted to visit my lady friend,” he says thickly.

“What?” Schofield doesn’t understand, does he mean the German Lyco from the other night? Is that why he tried to get out?

Blake drops his smile. “There’s so few of us left now,” he remarks sadly, and for a moment, Schofield thinks he’s about to cry.

It’s not the first time that Schofield feels sorry for him. He knows what social creatures Blake’s kind are, how difficult it must be for him to be the only Lyco in their battalion, given how the brass hats had attempted to distribute them as evenly as possible across the regiments. Now, the number of Schofield’s kind was beginning to outnumber Blake’s. Commissioned Leashes who joined up without a Lyco pairing assigned to them were simply folded into regular service. The then newly conscripted Schofield used to think that alternative was preferable before his newfound change of heart.

Blake’s face suddenly splits into a wide smirk, “Soon they’ll be ordering us to get to work making little pups! Get a leg over for the war effort?” He giggles manically, leaning a hand against Schofield’s shoulder and swaying in place against his hips.

“What ‘bout you, Scho? You got a Mrs. leech and a baby leech back home?”

Schofield tries not to take offense at the slur; he knows Blake doesn’t feel any of the bigotry behind it, and he softens at the new nickname instead.

“No.”

“More’s the pity, you’re awfully a looker,” he presses his face against Schofield’s chest and inhales deeply.

Schofield breath catches and he’s distinctly aware of the sudden flush of warmth brought on by Blake’s candid admission and close proximity.

But before Schofield can further dwell on their positions, Blake suddenly throws his head back and starts to loudly sing, “Pack up your troubles in your ‘ole kit bag! And smile, smile, sm- hmpf…”

Schofield hastily clamps a hand over his mouth. After the muddle Blake made last night, he doesn’t want to give the other soldiers any further ammunition to use against him to see him in such a state.

Blake nibbles at his hand and Schofield withdraws it in exasperation. With a frown, he wipes the salvia on his shirt.

“That’s not very polite.”

Grinning cheekily, Blake resumes singing, volume rising higher and higher with each word. Schofield quickly returns a hand to his mouth.

“Can’t you just be quiet for once?” he grumbles tersely, but there’s no real malice in his words.

Blake shakes his head from side to side under his palm. Schofield sighs.

He tries a different approach. With his free hand, Schofield reaches up to stroke his hair in an effort to calm him. It does the trick; instantly relaxing, Blake closes his eyes.

Tentatively removing his hand from Blake’s face, Schofield moves to guide him to the ground. Sitting down cross-legged, he directs Blake’s head onto his lap and resumes running his fingers through his brown locks.

“‘s lovely,” Blake sighs. Schofield quite agrees with him. Blake is soft beneath his hand, and he’s warm, so warm, Schofield wants nothing more than to press that billowing, irresistible warmth into his entire being.

All too soon, however, Schofield is made aware of damp tears on Blake’s face. With eyes still closed, he hitches a tiny choked sob.

“Do you think this bloody war will ever end, Scho?” Teardrops roll sideways down Blake’s cheek. “Tell me it will.”

The ice returns to Schofield’s core, he feels it shattering deep within like a frozen lake suddenly pieced and broken. He doesn’t answer Blake. He can’t.

Instead, Schofield cradles his head, allowing himself the indulgence of dragging a gentle thumb across Blake’s wet cheek. With a sigh, Blake curls his legs closer to his chest and Schofield’s hand resumes its place caressing his hair. Eventually, Blake’s breathing evens out.

“Blake…?” Schofield asks hesitantly, inclining his head downwards. There’s no reply. _Good_ , Schofield hopes he’s properly sober by the time he wakes up again.

Eventually, a grim-faced sapper comes out to cut the wire but Schofield is in no hurry to leave their pen, positively wilting at the very idea of facing their battalion in the daylight. He’s still sternly berating himself for letting Blake out of his sight. _Incredibly stupid…right fucking stupid..._ If only he hadn’t let his guard down, if only he had been more cautious…hadn’t he learned his lesson before?

After a time, Blake finally stirs again.

Groaning loudly, he throws one arm over his face, “Oh, god. Oh, _god_.”

“Have I been run over by a tank?” Blake sits up carefully and presses his palms against his eyes. “Jesus, I feel like I’ve been trampled on by the entire fucking Calvary.”

“What do you remember?” Schofield watches him closely.

Blake drags his hands across his face and closes his eyes before replying, “Chaos. Fear. Lots of screaming and yelling.”

“Anything else?”

Blake’s entire face turns scarlet. He doesn’t meet Schofield’s eyes.

“Yeah, well, I reckon I’ve always been a lively drunk,” he finally replies under his breath. “I’m sorry I made such a fuss this morning.”

“You might do well to apologize to Private Wilko.”

“Wilko…?” he frowns in confusion and then suddenly lifts his eyebrows in horrified recollection. “Oh, _bleeding christ_ , is he alright?”

“Far as I know, his arm is still being looked at by a medic.”

Blake lets out a distraught noise as nothing but pure shame and remorse blossoms out of his expressive blue eyes.

He doesn’t say another word to Schofield; Blake simply stands up, legs still a little wobbly, and solemnly walks out of the enclosure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally an update! I'm sorry to keep you all waiting; I've been finding it increasingly difficult to write in addition to struggling with crippling carpal tunnel pain.  
> I give my wholehearted thanks to each and every one of you who left a comment and kudos, as well as undying gratitude towards @thenightwindow (my beta), and to the 2nd Devon's server for their continued support and for helping me brainstorm one of the scenes!  
> I hope I will be able to finish at least one more chapter in this story and feel free to reach out to me on my [Tumblr](https://yonderlight.tumblr.com/) if you feel like it <3


	4. Chapter 4

Head pounding like the dickens and still dizzy from whatever the hell had been pumped into his bloodstream, Blake hastily makes his way along the outskirts of camp. Eyes downcast firmly at his feet, he can’t bear to look up and see anyone’s faces, can’t bear to feel any of the judgment and trepidation directed at him.

He doesn’t go back to the tree; instead, he half-blindly walks in the quietest direction, following his ears and nose, until he reaches several large stacks of supply crates.

Curling up between the piles of boxes, he cries, unable to prevent the flood of tears any longer. He cries for Wilko, for permanently maiming one of his own platoon mates, accidental cannon fodder in the line of fire of his emotional distress, and for all the other men he’s inflicted far worse upon…

He knows he won’t face official punishment for attacking Wilko, what with Blake’s position being far too valuable and his actions a defensible result of his condition in the eyes of the BEF. It’s Schofield who will inevitably endure a harsh reprimand. _Oh, Scho_ … It wasn’t his fault! And to add further salt to the wound, he’s gone and made a right bloody fool of himself in front of him.

He desperately wants to apologize to Wilko, but he’s not sure what he’d say to the man, what words he could possibly string together to impart even a fraction of the guilt and penitence he feels. _I’m probably the last fucking bloke he wants to see right now,_ he thinks dismally.

He wishes he could talk to Joe.

Nearly all the letters he’s received from him had been censored into oblivion, whole lines and paragraphs blacked out with ink by a vigilant regimental officer. He wonders how often Joe’s found himself in a similar predicament, if his casualty count matches Blake’s. He wonders what his mother would think of him now…

The mere thought brings another cascade of tears tumbling down his face. He wonders how she could welcome back her youngest son knowing the countless slaughter he’s wreaked, how she could bear to kiss his cheeks knowing the violence those jaws had inflicted on men with their own families, men who would never again see their mothers or fathers or…

He buries his face in his hands, feeling all at once nauseated and overcome.

The sound of quiet footsteps sends him scrambling up onto his haunches. Blake crouches on the ground ready to flee, hurriedly scrubbing at his face and trying to control his breathing.

He smells him before he walks into view. It’s Schofield.

Eyes full of concern, he gingerly steps around one of the tall wooden stacks, “Blake, I-”

“I don’t feel like talking,” Blake turns away sniffling, still attempting to dry his cheeks with his hands.

Schofield approaches him slowly, palms open and reaching out to close the gap between them. “I just…wanted to apologize,” he says remorsefully, “my actions were irresponsible and I was careless last night. I’m…sorry.”

Blake opens his mouth to protest but Schofield cuts him off, “We’ve all got a job to do here, every one of us,” he says stiffly, looking away. “It’s not easy, but you have to-” Schofield exhales and appears to carefully rearrange his face before meeting Blake’s eyes.

“It’s not your fault, Tom.”

Holding out his hand, Scho pulls him onto his feet and then completely encases him in a fierce embrace.

“It’s going to be alright,” he whispers, quiet words muffled against Blake’s shoulder.

Utterly spent, Blake melts into Schofield’s arms as his entire body sags against his chest. He breathes deeply, taking in the comforting scent that is so distinctly Schofield, an odor akin to cold earth and worn leather with a hint of something un-humanlike and sharp, like pine or mint.

“Come on then,” Scho gently takes him by the shoulders to look into his eyes, “let’s go.”

Blake allows himself to be led to their tree by Schofield, finding it somewhat easier to face the aftermath with Scho by his side while they walk through the wrecked camp.

They both carry out the rest of their routine in relative silence, with Blake making a weak attempt to concentrate solely on chewing his food when Schofield is later summoned for a debriefing. He does his best to try and bury the untethered feeling that haunts his chest and spirals around his thoughts whenever he’s alone. But he equally can’t control the unbounded relief he feels when he catches sight of Scho’s return.

They’re later given orders to report to the field kitchen, and Blake reflects with grim irony that it’s only fitting he’s assigned to water duty, ordered to fill up the large cooking vats that were overturned last night during his…disturbance.

It’s tedious work, walking back and forth with full petrol cans from the water lorry to the stew pots, but still…Schofield’s soothing presence is a welcome respite. Blake would dig a thousand latrine ditches with a song in his heart if it meant he could do it with Scho there beside him. Even now, he can’t help how he delights in the way his hand brushes up against Scho’s when he passes him a petrol can, or how his body lightly bumps into his while they walk, as if there was a magnetic force pulling their two shoulders together. It helps to focus on that rather than on the tacit hostility permeating the entire camp, on the scowls and narrowed eyes from the other soldiers.

At one point during their trek, Blake inadvertently locks eyes with Private Rushworth attempting to tie down a dislodged canvas flap while others hoist a fallen tent pole upright. His memory sparks at the sight and Blake feels a sudden rush of anxiety, remembering the screams all around him as he crashed through the tent in a panic, consumed by a single thought, _escape, escape, escape_ …

He shivers and can’t bear to endure the surrounding tense aura another moment longer. Looking at Schofield, Blake juts his chin towards an unscathed laundry line where various uniform pieces and undergarments flutter in the spring breeze.

“At least everyone’s kecks made it out last night, good thing that,” Blake weakly chuckles but presses on when Schofield shifts his eyes to the drying station and then back down at him.

“Can you believe, Joe once woke up the morning following a moon night to find himself tangled in a bloody _corset_!”

He can’t help smiling at the memory and eagerly continues when he sees the corners of Schofield’s mouth upturn ever so slightly.

“We found it knotted all around his head and neck. Mum and I positively pissed ourselves with laughter at the sight of him trying to get it off! We still have no idea where he filched it from, but mum thinks he must have gotten it from a neighbour’s laundry that was left out, right nosy bastard. He tried to throw it away before breakfast but I found it in the bin. And do you know what I did? Took it upon me self to stuff it under his pillow the next month!”

Schofield’s soft laughter doesn’t carry much further past their place along the trampled foot path, but its rare and pleasant sound reverberates inside Blake’s entire being. He thinks rather wistfully to himself that there isn’t a more wonderful sound in the entire universe.

“Do you know what?” still snickering, he looks up thoughtfully at the sky, “I think I remember trying to help him before sunrise, tugging and pulling at those bloody strings, but that probably only buggered it up further.” It’s the truth, Blake has a vague recollection of the sight of his brother frantically spinning around in circles and shaking his head with it twisted around his mane. He’s very nearly certain he trotted over and tried pawing and biting at the blasted thing to free him but must have given it up when the change started.

“Do you have any brothers back home, Scho?”

Schofield shakes his head, “No, I have a younger sister.”

Blake thinks to myself that seems fitting enough for his personality. “Ah, well, you don’t seem like the sort to get into any boyish mischief I suppose, much too proper and all that.”

“Not really, I was fairly shy in my youth,” he pauses, “but I did bite a constable once.” There’s a twinkle in Schofield’s eyes as he wryly smirks at Blake.

Blake’s unable to hide the look of shock that dances across his face, “What? _You_? I don’t believe it.”

“Believe what you want then.”

“Well, what happened? Come on then, tell me, please!”

Schofield shrugs, “It’s not much of a story. He called my sister a ‘filthy leech’ and pushed her to the ground so I bit him.”

Blake stops dead in his tracks, “‘ _not much of a story_ …?’ Are you _mad_? There’s a _complete_ fucking story there!” he spiritedly readjusts his grip on the empty petrol cans.

This piece of information is entirely too much and Blake’s mind is quick to conjure up the preposterous image of a small, posh young Schofield turning feral on an arsehole bobby in some dark city corner.

Schofield still hasn’t halted his stride so Blake scrambles to catch back up to him. He’s unable to ask Scho to elaborate any further, however, before they arrive at their destination.

There’s a small congregation of men rowdily chatting and filling their water bottles. They instantly grow silent at Blake and Schofield’s entrance.

Private Stokes immediately shuffles away when Blake approaches the lorry. He glares, “Wouldn’t want to catch any fleas.”

“Come off it, mate! You’ve got more fleas and lice than him, you lousy bastard,” Kilgour puffs out his chest but shrinks back as Stokes towers over him.

Darkly leering down at Kilgour, Stokes then turns to spit at Blake’s feet, “Well, I fancy keeping all my bloody fingers intact, then.”

Reduced to silence, Blake can only look away, shifting uneasily in place.

“Just leave him be,” Schofield’s voice remains even but his eyes flash warningly.

“England really has gone to the dogs and leeches. Buncha animals.” Flinching from Schofield, Stokes sulks away after this parting jab just as Lieutenant Leslie strolls toward their group.

“Evening gentlemen!”

An unenergetic chorus of “sir” echoes around the crowd.

“Now if you’re all quite finished with this rather uncouth display of willy-waving, the Colonel is looking for a handful of volunteers for a recon patrol tonight. Anyone?”

Silence.

Blake steps forward, “Sir! I volunteer.” He deliberately ignores the look of alarmed surprise that Schofield casts in his direction.

“Splendid! Thank you, my boy. Anyone else?”

Still staring at Blake, Scho begrudgingly lifts a hand, his mouth grimly fixed into a thin line.

“Schofield! How generous of you. Wonderful, wonderful…all right that makes two. Let’s see…Kilgour, Davis, you both are to accompany them as well. Harvey’s leading the mission, report to his dugout at twenty hundred hours. All the best, lads. Cheerio,” he swiftly turns on his heel before anyone can further comment or object.

They all stand there dumbly for a beat; Kilgour’s face is positively dour while Davis looks like he’s about to vomit. Eventually, they each part ways in silence.

Turning back to the water filling station, Blake feels Schofield crowding his body against his side.

“Why did you do that.”

“I thought…”

“ _No_ , you didn’t. Do you expect to win their favour by getting yourself killed? Do you really think you’ll ever gain any of their _respect_ or _trust_?”

Blake frowns and bitterly sets down his can. He had only wanted to make amends for his actions last night; it was a foolish, split-second decision, he knew, but he had to _try,_ blast it all.

“Go on! You don’t have to come with me then, you barmy bastard!”

Schofield’s breath comes out in a huff. Reaching out, long fingers enclose Blake’s hand.

His voice softens into a firm undertone, “Yes. I do.”

Blake stills.

He squeezes Scho’s hand back and nods slowly, a shared vow of protection. This feels like some sort of unspoken admission, a significant secret passed between them that cannot be withdrawn or buried. And when they recommence their walk across camp, Blake feels almost lighter somehow, despite the heavy containers in his grasp. He never wanted to put Scho in danger, never wanted to risk hurting him in any way, but damn it if he’s not grateful he’s coming along with him.

The hours pass as they normally do, no more strangely or slowly than all the days before. But something has shifted now. Something has bloomed and flourished inside him, against all expectations and against all odds, and Blake clings desperately to this internal blossom in spite of himself.

With the rest of their patrol, they anxiously wait for the last tendrils of sunlight to wither below the horizon as they lean side by side against the trench wall. The uneasy atmosphere is almost palpable, viscous and teeming with anticipation below the surface. Gratefully accepting a swig from Davis’ flask when it’s silently passed to him, Blake stifles a cough brought on by both the burning aftertaste of the rum and the smoke from Harvey’s pipe wafting downwind.

Fiddling with the straps of his ammunition pouches, he stares at the filthy wooden surface in front of him, following the intricacies of the wood grain with his eyes as he tries not to dwell on worst-case scenarios.

Blake is suddenly aware of cold metal being pressed into his palm. He looks up and meets Schofield’s earnest gaze.

“I want you to have this. It’s…it’s something of a good luck charm,” Scho utters sotto voce.

Looking down, Blake runs his fingers over the ring in his hand. It’s beautifully patterned, with intricate markings that swirl almost vein-like in spiraling arrangements throughout the circular metal.

“It’s just a bit of rubbish I found, but those etchings are an ancient design. I used to trace the same patterns with my finger along my parent’s tapestry at home,” he admits shyly.

“T-thank you,” Blake is completely overcome by the gesture.

At a loss for words, he slides the ring through the cord around his neck where it collides into his identify discs with a soft ting.

There’s so much he wishes to say in that moment, so many brimming emotions begging to be divulged to the world, but all he can do is stare into the helpless blue of Schofield’s eyes.

He doesn’t have long to reflect on this exchange, however, before the intelligence officer gives the order to move out.

Wrestling his feelings into submission to focus on the mission at hand, he climbs up the parapet.

Blake goes over the top.

There aren’t many instances Blake ventures out into No Man’s Land in his current form, when the moon is waxing or waning, and doing so now fills him with a kind of déjà vu, a surreal, yet familiar, dread that turns his blood cold and makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Every one of his senses screams back at him: his smell, his sight, his hearing, all sharpened into a hyper-awareness that pricks at his mind insistently. If he falters for a moment it’s all too easy to become overwhelmed by awful details that threaten to engulf him, the terrible minutiae of death and decay and the crowded aftermath of violence.

Head down, neck craning forward and balanced under the shifting weight of his steel helmet, he tries to concentrate on his careful pace in the slick muck, on centering his weighed down body with each shortened step; toe heel, toe heel, _don’t slip, don’t slip_ … He almost wishes he could be on all fours now, if only to feel a more balanced center of gravity and less like the slippery earth beneath him was persistently attempting to topple him over.

When Blake turns his head to the side, it startles him, only a little, to see the red glow of Schofield’s eyes and the tips of fangs peeking out in a grimace, the only indication of his nervousness behind an otherwise calmly focused exterior.

On high alert, the five of them fearfully make their way through the deadly pockmarked site, constantly ducking, crouching, and crawling, firmly cognizant that the threat of danger was swift and relentless and that each breath could be their last.

They eventually slide one by one into a sap trench.

Just as Blake is catching his breath, the breeze shifts and with it comes a spike of unease.

The faint stench of garlic stings his nostrils and he sneezes, swiping a hand at the stream of burning mucus running down his nose. The other men shush him but he feels his own panic rising.

“Stop! Does anyone smell that?” he furiously whispers.

Kilgour shakes his head no while the rest simply stare at him. Schofield, however, turns away, brows furrowed in concentration as he squints out across the landscape and then suddenly recoils.

Right as searing tears begin to well in his eyes, Blake sees it too: a sickly-coloured yellow cloud swiftly creeping along the mud.

“Gas!” 

Hands trembling as ice floods his veins, Blake fumbles with the canvas bag on his back containing his gas mask. His heart hammers madly like a booming cannon in his chest and Blake knows he has mere seconds to cover his face with the respirator.

When it’s finally affixed over his head, Blake’s laboured breathing fills his ears and echoes throughout the filtered covering. Rapidly blinking, he peers through the circular lenses looking around for Scho.

There’s frenzied movement at his rear as Schofield is still frantically trying to reach behind him and wrestle his gas mask to the front. The bag is cruelly caught on a twisted strap.

“Scho!” Blake screams inside his mask through the mouthpiece and it feels like he’s screaming underwater.

A wall of yellow billows around them like a plunging wave.

In the sinister fog, Schofield sinks to the ground, coughing and clawing at his throat. Cupping his armpits, Blake quickly scoops him up and hoists him atop his shoulders. He staggers at the added weight, but determinedly hooks an arm around Schofield’s leg and moves along the trench away from the advancing gas. Spying a masked Kilgour fleeing in front of him, they both almost trip over a body crumpled on the ground. Blake’s hands burn as if having been exposed to blistering heat and he feels Schofield heaving from his place slung across his back.

Scrabbling his way out of the sap trench, Blake retreats back toward the front line. He almost doesn’t notice it at first, a rapid whistle slicing through the air, and then: a terrific jolt to his shoulder.

Startled, he nearly jumps out his skin, deliriously reminded of the many times Joe had tried to scare him in the cherry orchard by leaping out from behind a tree and punching his arm.

Still stunned by the peculiar shock, he slips violently in the mud, propelling Schofield off and sending his rifle splattering to the ground. Sprawled out, he touches his shoulder and it’s not until his hand comes away with blood that the pain finally hits him, a delayed reaction activated only by its acknowledgement. Sound too, seems to finally catch up with him, and Blake is suddenly aware of the dreadful crack of gunshots. The night is alive with singing bullets streaking all around him in the haze.

Everything feels muffled and distorted with his sense of smell completely snuffed out beneath his mask, and he wishes to god he had Schofield’s keen eyesight.

Ignoring the fierce pain in his shoulder, he crawls in frenzied movements on his stomach towards a coughing Schofield, simultaneously grabbing his rifle strap and dragging them both into a shallow crump hole.

Blake’s hands burn with renewed fervor from touching the lingering gas imbued in the fabric of Schofield’s uniform. Gathering his thoughts together, he unlatches his canteen and pours water over Schofield’s face. But his reddened eyelids are screwed shut and his body weakly shudders with the motion of trying to retch the vaporous poison.

He has to get Scho to an aid post.

Cautiously peering out, the gas has dispensed slightly in the wind, but he spies a masked German advancing steadily toward their position.

With bated breath, Blake raises his rifle, vividly imagining the action of pulling the trigger, of ending this anonymous man’s life. Pushing the bolt handle forward and down, he envisions the scene laid out in front him, knows what he must do…

He squeezes…

And at the last minute jerks his hand downward. The Hun clutches his leg and stumbles forward.

Blake swears, feeling altogether relieved and oddly disappointed.

Nerves completely shot, he doesn’t look back at the wounded Boche soldier, he simply heaves Schofield around his shoulders and makes a mad dash to the Allied trench.

A volley of bullets disturbs the air but Blake can only pay attention to the route in front of him and to his grip on Scho. His frenzied breaths are deafening inside the mask. _Run, run, run, run…_

When he finally skids town the trench wall he screams for a stretcher-bearer, for a doctor, for _anybody_.

Hands attempt to slow down his hysterical pacing, voices attempt to soothe him, and he’s distantly aware of Schofield’s motionless body being wrestled away from him and loaded onto a stretcher.

When did he take his gas mask off? Did the rest of the patrol make it back? _Is Scho still breathing_? He’s guided in an unknown direction and dimly senses someone pressing a bandage to his throbbing shoulder.

Heart still racing, Blake comes back to himself a little while he’s being looked at in the medical tent. After his incessant questioning, a detached medic finally tells him matter-of-factly that Schofield will be stripped and carted off to a portable shower unit to be decontaminated, where they will flush out his eyes and treat his skin. All that’s left is to wait.

Staring off into the distance, Blake traces his fingers round and round the metal ring strung on his neck and prays. 

_All that’s left is to wait_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still interested in this fic I can't convey my gratitude enough. Comments are basically the main source of my serotonin at this point. I'm hoping to wrap up this story before too long (I'm so sorry to end on an angsty cliffhanger! This was going to be my last chapter but it got too big) and thank you all for sticking around! <3
> 
> Questions, comments, concerns? Have any burning questions about the world of this AU? Hit me up on [Tumblr](https://yonderlight.tumblr.com/). Come play in this sandbox with me! 
> 
> I'd be remiss without giving a shoutout to my wonderfully supportive beta @thenightwindow. I literally don't know what I'd do without her. And also to the incredible @debeauharnais for answering my historial questions, and to @ealasaid for helping me brainstorm and being a wonderful human being!


	5. Chapter 5

Darkness.

There was only emptiness, darkness. And then from that crushing, suffocating void came pain, smothering and blistering _pain_.

_Blake…?_

Schofield wants to cry out, wants to shout for him, but all of his energy is funneled into the impossible effort of a single small breath, and then attempting another one, and another, _in and out_ …an incredible task that saps nearly all of his strength. Fading in and out of consciousness, he’s lost his autonomy in this dizzying darkness as he’s manhandled into water, then slathered and covered by items unknown to him. All the while, his weary lungs struggle to fulfill their formerly underappreciated purpose.

_It’s so dark…_

Unsure of exactly how much time has passed, Schofield is awoken by hunger pangs, sharp and twisting in their intensity. Rotating fitfully from his horizontal position on taut canvas, he finally claws his way into discomforting wakefulness.

“Blake…?” his voice is grossly hoarse and weak-sounding to his ears.

Raising a hand to his eyes, Schofield feels layers of soft cotton wrapped around his head. He’s then suddenly aware of small fingers gently guiding his palm to the side of a familiar face.

“Here I am.”

Schofield almost weeps in relief at the sound of his voice, at feeling the curve of Blake’s round cheek, drawing desperate comfort from the touch of those soft features.

“You’ve been asleep for nearly two days. They’ve got you fixed up in your own private billet, all fancy like.”

Listening to him talk, Schofield’s hand drifts down to rest on Blake’s warm neck, his finger lightly ghosting over the throbbing jugular vein there…

As if he can read his thoughts, Blake softly cups his hand in between his and withdraws them from his throat. “When was the last time you fed?” he asks, not unkindly.

Schofield doesn’t immediately respond, still wrestling against the visceral impulse to pull Blake down and sink his teeth deep into that tantalizing artery…

“Scho?”

His features tighten in embarrassment beneath his bandages and Schofield lets out a string of coughs before he can reply, “It’s been a while…”

 _How long_ has _it been? Three…three and a half days?_ Much too long, in any case. His fierce appetite amidst his weakened state makes him shamefully realize why he’s been isolated here away from the other wounded soldiers and the scent of their blood…

The cot creaks as Blake stands up, “We can’t have that, now can we? Let me see if I can find you some grub.”

Hearing his sudden departure, Schofield already achingly misses the warmth of his presence. Even from a distance, he can easily extricate Blake’s distinct accent from the din of conversations outside the tent; but he strains to hear the doctor’s brusque reply to Blake’s requests.

“…this blood is for my patients, for transfusions. It’s not blooming leech food. Ask your CO to sort it out.”

It’s not difficult for Schofield to imagine Blake’s reaction to this remark, to picture his vexed facial expression, eyebrows creased, pink bottom lip pulled down and jaw jutted out. It’s not difficult to imagine him unclenching his fists and schooling his face back into a smile as he walks back to Schofield’s tent. 

“Well, it would appear they’re a little preoccupied ‘round here. No matter, you can have some of mine,” Blake says cheerfully. The small bed groans as he perches on its edge, thigh pressed up against Schofield’s hip. “I’ve got loads of it to spare,” he remarks, keeping his tone light.

Schofield considers, hardly daring to believe Blake’s eagerness.

Filling the silence, Blake shyly lowers his voice, “If you want me. My blood, that is! I dunno, is that even possible? But I don’t think you’re strong enough to walk across camp yet…maybe I can bring someone here to you…or…? Because you bloody well need to _eat_ so you can recover and, and…” he rambles nervously.

Reaching out into darkness, Schofield’s hand finds Blake’s leg.

“Blood is blood. I’m grateful…and willing, if you are.” Far more than willing, if he was being honest with himself.

Schofield can sense him fidgeting. He desperately wishes he could see Blake sitting before him, wishes he could use that innate ability he’s always possessed to put Blake at ease with his eyes.

Schofield sits up slowly, taking care not to move too quickly, and then allows his hand to travel up the side of Blake’s shoulder.

Sighing, Blake leans into his touch.

The feel of his rough wool collar gives way to pulsing skin, to the velvety soft space between Blake’s collarbone and jaw. Blind to the world beyond their shared space on the cot, Schofield is thankful to trace Blake’s outline in this way, to be so uniquely aware of each combined texture. Stripped of sight, the rest of his senses fall away to reveal only touch, an insistent and intensely focused sensation that lights something deeper than merely hunger inside of him.

Cupping the back of Blake’s neck at the base of his cropped hairline, Schofield whispers against his ear, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” comes Blake’s breathless reply.

Fangs extended, Schofield grazes them against Blake’s throat for a moment before sinking into supple flesh.

It’s overwhelming at first, indescribable. It’s his first time tasting Lyco blood, tanged with something spicy and almost woodsy in flavour, supremely different to that of human blood.

Letting out a small gasp, Blake curls into him as Schofield keenly presses his body closer. A low whine rumbles free from the confines of Blake’s mouth.

The experience is irresistible, entirely too much to process all at once, combined with the sensuous weight of Blake’s trusting form in his arms and the slight saltiness and musky smell of his skin.

A small internal voice warns him not to draw too much from Blake, and Schofield forces himself with great difficulty to pull away. Withdrawing his fangs carefully, he catches his breath in a state of satisfying euphoria.

Blake is unusually quiet so Schofield worriedly runs a searching hand over his face. Slack-jawed with eyes half-lidded, Blake sways a little to the side at the touch.

“So how do I taste?” he jokes, words slightly slurred.

Feeling nearly drunk himself, Schofield finds Blake’s languid giddiness altogether contagious. Schofield breathlessly chuckles, falling back onto the thin pillow with a cough. He ignores Blake’s question, “It’s normal to feel a bit woozy. It will pass. Come here, lie down next to me.”

Silently obliging, Blake sinks down onto the edge of the cot, resting his head on Schofield’s chest. Once he’s settled, Schofield promptly finds himself idly rubbing the space between Blake’s shoulder blades, a natural impulse he does without a second thought.

His hand stills when he discovers what feels like a bandage underneath Blake’s tunic.

“Are you injured?” 

Without lifting his head, Blake mumbles into Schofield’s torso, “’s no bother.”

“Blake…” he says sternly. He feels Blake shift restlessly from his place pressed up against him.

“I’m fine, really I am. It’s no blighty wound, just a clean shot all the way through. It’s nearly healed.”

Hesitantly, Schofield’s fingers search for the edges of the dressing under Blake’s loose undershirt, trying to gauge its size and severity. If this is how Blake fared, how did the rest of the patrol come out of it?

“What of the others?” Schofield prompts.

A heavy silence poisons the air.

“It’s just us.”

His elation from moments ago rapidly dissipates as Schofield lets this sink in. He feels a sort of selfish relief, shamefully finding himself immensely grateful to have Blake’s living heartbeat here against his in place of the men who had fallen. Outwardly, he can only bring himself to nod silently at Blake’s answer, drawing his arms tighter around Blake.

He’s not exactly sure when he fell asleep, but upon waking, the barrenness of Blake’s absence cuts through Schofield like a bitter winter draft.

There are voices right outside the tent.

“…we just aren’t as familiar with Hematophagic biology. Taking their advanced healing factor into account, it’s difficult to discern a reliable prognosis. We know their eyes are vastly more sensitive than ours so that may allow for a longer recovery period from gas exposure. And…” there’s a pause, “…it’s entirely possible he may never regain his sight.”

Sucking in a shocked breath that devolves into a coughing fit, Schofield hears the tent flap rustle open as two pairs of footsteps enter. _Blake._ His recognizable scent is accompanied by the smell of an unfamiliar human reeking of antiseptics and cigarettes. Flinching violently when the heat of a burning sunbeam lands on his sensitive skin, Schofield hears a string of colourful swear words unfurl from Blake’s mouth. The scalding light is blessedly snuffed out in moments once the tent is quickly sealed again.

Without warning, a cold stethoscope is pressed to his chest. The same voice from outside, now edged with irritation, instructs Schofield to open his mouth, prodding a wooden tongue depressor roughly inside. “Extraordinary… respiratory tract is healing _remarkably_ quickly…simply extraordinary…” he murmurs to himself as if examining an interesting specimen.

“Skin lesions entirely healed as well…” The pair of hands begins to rapidly unwrap the dressing around his head. Trying not to squirm like a child, Schofield clenches his jaw against the pain when the doctor pries open his eyelids.

Still sightless, there’s only unsettling darkness surrounding him.

“Tapetum lucidum and conjunctiva are still inflamed, with corneal erosion evident…” A jarring splash of alkaline scented liquid to irrigate his eyes sends Schofield sputtering. Wiping away the chemical from his nose and mouth, the bandage covering is returned to his face.

“We’re sending you to the base hospital to continue treatment.”

There’s a soft, nearly inaudible noise to his side: a heartbreaking gasp that comes from Blake.

The doctor continues unperturbed, his voice slightly muted as though he’s already turning away from Schofield in his impatience to leave. “The ambulance is currently delayed, blasted road is blocked again, but it should arrive in a day or so to take you to the train station,” he says nonchalantly, casual in this statement of fact, and utterly oblivious to how the weight of those words severs Schofield’s heart completely in two. The thought of being sent away and separated, of leaving Blake here on his own, pains him with a startling ferocity.

The tent flap rustles, indicating the doctor’s hasty exit, and the two of them occupy the space in solemn, introspective silence.

“They’ll assign another Leash to you, then,” Schofield finally remarks. This grim admission yields a fierce tightness in his chest not solely brought on by his current physical ailment.

“For chrissake, don’t say that! You’ll be fixed up within four weeks and then they’ll send you back.”

Schofield shakes his head, “You don’t know that, Blake.”

“This is all my fault,” Blake whispers miserably. “I’m sorry, Scho…I’m so sorry…” his voice tapers off, heavy with anguish.

“None of that now. My choices were entirely my own.” He’s tired, god he’s so tired, it’s an unending weariness that he can’t dislodge, and Schofield finds he has no more comforting words to offer Blake. It’s not that he regrets his past actions, and he’d do it again a thousand times over in order to look after Blake. But it’s a weary sense of frustration and powerlessness that settles over Schofield now, caught up in the folly of ill-fated ‘if only’s and ‘what if’s.

They sit together quietly for a little while longer, until Blake is later scolded by a strict voice instructing him to return to his labour detail. With promises to come back after dinner, he’s unceremoniously shuffled out of the tent, leaving Schofield to endure the silent gloom in solitude.

It’s the worst sort of boredom, deprived of sight, deprived of engagement. There’s nothing to distract him from the sound of his own rattled breathing, or from the wails of pain emerging from the adjacent field hospital. Drifting in and out of sleep, Schofield’s mind is plagued by nebulous visions of No Man’s Land awash in silver moonlight and scarlet blood: visions of an unclothed Blake embracing him tightly with human hands, hands that are suddenly dragged away by unseen forces, ripping all of Schofield’s uniform layers off in its fury until he’s exposed and vulnerable, visions of monstrous paws pinning him down, standing on top of his chest as Schofield struggles for air, trying desperately to breathe…

Jerking awake, he rolls onto his side. There’s nothing but the scattered reverberations of his troubled thoughts to keep him company as he waits for Blake to return.

Much later that evening, Blake is good on his promise.

Having felt steady enough to stretch his legs, they ventured out of the tent together after sundown. Currently, Schofield has one hand on Blake’s shoulder, confidently guided by both the sound of his voice and the grounding feel of his bicep.

Blake has been gleefully regaling him with tales of the day as they slowly walk outside the camp perimeter. In one story, he enthusiastically describes how a particularly troublesome carrion bird had taken to standing atop one of the periscopes, completely blocking the view from the sentry on duty. The men each took turns trying to coax the cheeky crow off with all manner of shiny trinkets and biscuit offerings. Until a disgruntled Sergeant finally said ‘to hell with it’ and lobbed a football at the creature, which missed the crow entirely and promptly landed into the ribcage of a dead horse.

“Rather rotten task for the fellow who has to retrieve it tonight!” Blake chuckles.

“You never run out of yarns, do you? And here I thought guide dogs weren’t supposed to be so chatty,” Schofield drolly states.

Blake gives a big belly laugh. “Why Scho, it only took you almost dying to develop a proper sense of humour!” Blake teases, hooking an arm through his. “Well, I regret to inform you that all German shepherds have sworn their allegiance to the Kaiser. So I’m the best you’ve got, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, you speak German shepherd do you?” 

“Not as well as the German Lycos do! Now, it’s a horse of a different colour with English sheepdogs and Irish setters, much easier to understand.”

Schofield laughs heartily at this, easily picturing the image of Blake’s wide toothy grin and that oft-used mischievous glint alighting his eyes. It abruptly and painfully occurs to Schofield that, of all the sights he will lose if his vision never returns, he will miss seeing Blake’s smile most of all.

Feeling suddenly winded, he stops and tightens his hold on Blake’s arm while he coughs shakily.

“Why don’t we rest here a moment, Scho? It’s as quiet enough a spot as any.” Out of breath, Schofield nods in agreement, sinking into the grass with his hand still on Blake.

When he’s finally able to talk again, Schofield ventures, “Will you write to my family for me? To inform them of my situation?”

“’course I will. Your folks-…?”

“My sister, Elizabeth. I’m…I’m afraid my parents wouldn’t take kindly to corresponding directly with…. a Lyco, they’re rather close-minded in that regard.” It’s all too easy to shamefully imagine the look of disgust on his father’s face at handling the letter and spying Blake’s signature.

“Still think we shouldn’t be part of civilized society, do they?” Blake laughs bitterly.

Schofield shakes his head in frustration and adjusts the bandage around his hair. “One would think with the amount of years they’ve had on this earth, and with all the changes and advancements they’ve witnessed, they’d be more embracing of modernity. But they’re stubbornly set in their ways,” he says resentfully.

He doesn’t want to talk about his family anymore. He’d much rather listen to Blake speak and give his own aching throat a rest anyhow. “And what of your parents?” Schofield inquires.

“Mum…I suppose she lives in her own bubble, you understand, she doesn’t much concern herself with things outside of the pack or what’s going on in the world beyond our farm really. And I don’t know my father, got mum pregnant during a moon night. She doesn’t know who it is and never saw him again after that night, in any shape or form.”

Schofield doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so he settles on, “That’s dreadful, I’m sorry.”

“It happens sometimes among our kind,” Blake remarks with forced casualness. “And Joe’s father died before I was born, accident of some sort.”

“Your mother never remarried after that?”

“We don’t really have…marriages, at least, not in the way that your lot does. We have, well, it _is_ sort of like a bonding ceremony, it’s a pairing; sometimes a person can have more than one even. It’s like a promise, you see. There’s other things involved, mind you, but they say to each other-” Blake’s voice lilts into a more tender, ritualistic cadence, “‘I’m here with you now, in all parts of myself, and I will protect you and love you in this phase of my life. And even if you can’t see me, my love remains over you like a new moon in the heavens, come what may…’ some variation on that,” he adds bashfully.

“That’s rather beautiful,” Schofield says softly.

“I think so as well.” Schofield can almost hear the gentle smile in Blake’s inflection at this comment.

He sits there in thoughtful contemplation, lulled by Blake’s words. Listening to the wind weaving through the overhanging leaves, Schofield feels the wiry grass beneath his palms and the slight heat radiating from Blake’s closeness. His mind wanders to soft, abstract visions of Blake, clad handsomely in civilian clothes, awash with peacetime feelings of self-assurance and contentment…

Schofield is startled out of his reverie by sudden movement when Blake reaches out to fiercely clutch his hand. Blake then lowers his voice, “We could run away tonight, the two of us, before they take you away.”

Schofield stiffens in surprise.

“What?”

“If you leave, there’s nothing keeping me here,” Blake pleads, his voice breaking on the word ‘leave’.

A startling image floods Schofield’s mind, drowning his heart in currents of utter desolation: Blake in front of a firing squad, Blake slowly and agonizingly bleeding out, lying there in the dirt, the colour draining from his face… Then the mental picture suddenly morphs into Jondalar’s face, his body horrifically torn to shreds under his watch, overpowered by a group of German Lycos and their Leashes, all because of _his_ mistake, because Schofield wasn’t careful enough with the life of his only friend he was sworn to protect. But this isn’t Jondalar, this is Blake _, Tom_ , his dearest companion, his partner, his, his…

Schofield explodes in quiet fury bolstered by fear, “Think about what you’re suggesting, Blake! Risk getting dragged back and executed for desertion? And suppose we do get away, what kind of life could we have in hiding? Don’t you want to see your family again? And what the bloody hell would I do for food? Blind, no less, and out in the middle of _god knows where_?”

He doesn’t need to see Blake’s expression to sense the heavy feeling of hopelessness in the air. But Blake doggedly presses on, “I’ll take care of you! We’ll figure something out, and we’ll be together.”

Panic still clutching his chest, Schofield can’t allow the possibility of Blake attempting anything foolish to risk his life.

“We _can’t_. And this?” he rips his hand out of Blake’s grasp, “ _This_ is indecent, _unnatural_. For many reasons. Surely you can see that?”

Blake’s trembling voice desperately rises in pitch, “I don’t care! And I know you don’t either! I know you don’t.”

Schofield hangs his head, bringing his fists to the sides of his temples, trying to breathe.

He’s right, of course. Of course, he’s right…

“I…I care about _you_. That’s all I care about now,” Schofield finally confesses, willing Blake to understand something he’s not even sure he truly understands himself.

“Then let’s go away. _Please_ , Will.”

“We can’t,” Schofield repeats helplessly, the brutal image of Blake’s execution still seared into his mind. But good god, this _hurts._ To think about leaving Blake at the front while he sits useless and broken in some convalescent home pains him more than the punishing heat of a hundred suns upon his skin.

Schofield stands, “Take me back, now, let me go back to the tent.”

“ _Scho_ …”

“Take me back, Blake! I’ll do it with or without your bloody help.” He starts walking away until he feels a hand gently reach for the cuff of his shirtsleeve, tugging him in the proper direction.

Still fuming and unsettled, they arrive at his billet; Blake pulls open the flap, putting his other hand against the small of Schofield’s back to guide him in.

Stubborn as ever, Blake tries again after depositing Schofield onto the cot, “Listen to me, we can figure out a plan, we-…”

“You’re a fool.”

Blake falls silent.

The air around them seems to still under a hushed layer of frost.

Turning away, Schofield finally hears him leave; bitterly feeling the cold weight of his entire world crashing down as he buries himself under a deluge of guilt and self-loathing.

He wants to cry but he feels frozen. Crushed. Alone…with the echo of Blake’s pleas whirling around his mind like eddies of sleet in a snowstorm. He’s denied himself warmth. He’s denied himself Blake…

Tightly curled up on his bed, Schofield is later gruffly shaken awake having fallen asleep sometime during the night.

“Come on lad, you’ve got a train to catch.”

Disorientated and groggy from lingering nightmares, he’s briskly dragged up and steered outside into the cool, crisp air that Schofield instinctively knows to be near dawn. The damp patter of light rain greets him.

“No, wait…” stumbling away, Schofield holds his hands out in front of him, wildly waving his arms at empty air.

The man who spoke earlier is quick to grab his wrist and starts pulling him in the opposite direction.

“There we are Corp, the road is this-a-way.”

“There’s something I need to do first!” he can’t leave Blake in this way. He can’t _leave_ Blake. Struggling against the other man, Schofield’s efforts are thwarted by his own body as he’s racked with coughs.

“Easy, mate! You’re not the only bloke we’re picking up tonight, we haven’t the time.”

“No, you don’t understand. I need to see someone. _Please_ , please stop!” Schofield tries again to wrestle his arm away but a second man is quick to restrain him.

“And I’m sure one of the nice, pretty nurses will be more than happy to help you write a letter. Now come along Lance Corporal.”

“There’s a good lad,” the other one chimes in, wrapping a firm hand around Schofield’s shoulder.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to end. Denied the chance to see Blake, denied the opportunity to make amends. It’s not until this moment, confronted by the severe inevitably of separation, that Schofield realizes with utmost certainty that he’s not willing to exist in a place without Tom by his side. 

“Let me go!”

He thrashes about, futilely attempting to dig his heels into the sodden ground, as they get further and further away from the encampment.

“Scho!”

It’s faint but unmistakable: the sound of Blake’s voice from some distance away.

“Blake!”

Schofield does the first thing that springs to his mind. He bites the hand wrapped about his arm.

“ _Bugger me_!” the man yelps in pain and surprise. “To hell with you then!”

Now freed, Schofield runs blindly, ripping off the sagging bandage from his eyes, waterlogged from the rain.

Sprinting towards Blake’s scent, his arms flail in front of him until he’s unexpectedly aware of blurry shapes taking form against the dark smudges of twilight. His vision gradually reforming, he blinks rapidly as Blake’s silhouette miraculously emerges from the shadowy background. Schofield reaches out for him…

They collide into each other, fraught with desperation and long-restrained emotion.

“I can see you,” Schofield marvels.

Blake clumsily pulls them behind a tent while Schofield drinks in the sight of him. Blake’s wet curls lay plastered against his forehead, his wide azure eyes overflowing with devotion, devastating in their intensity. Cupping Schofield’s face, Blake stares back at him for a beat until he resolutely brings his lips to Schofield’s. Schofield widens his mouth, hungrily exploring Blake and basking in the sheer incredulousness of the moment, until they break apart, gasping for air.

“What are we going to do?” Blake pants.

Schofield shakes his head, “I don’t know. We press on and endure it because it’s all we _can_ do. You steward what’s left of my heart and I’ll keep you safe, this I promise,” he intertwines their hands together, “and I’ll look after you here until they ring the bloody bells of peace.” Blake laughs, his smile breaking through the stream of tears that converge into raindrops down his cheeks. “I’ll take care of you, Tom,” he brings a trembling kiss to Blake’s knuckles.

“And I’ll take care of _you,_ you bastard! I promise.” Blake clings to Schofield, pressing their chests together, both men immeasurably warmed by the vow exchanged between them. It’s whispered deep into the fragile night, carried along by hopeful glimmers in the dewy sunrise; and shouted into secret corners, thundering out over the hopeless landscape underneath a gibbous moon obscured by clouds.

_I promise, I promise, I promise…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you is in order to my dear friend @ealasaid, I'm not sure what I would do without her advice as well as her creative and emotional support. If you're still hungry for more 1917 werewolf/vampire content, please check out her fabulous [ Joseph Blake prequel spin-off fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25112650) which takes place in my very own Of Monsters, Moon, and Blood universe! We're hoping to eventually keep expanding on this as a series and working on future crossover stories together.
> 
> In addition, I was lucky enough to have some of my writing featured in the upcoming 1917 zine which you can pre-order [here!](https://1917zine.bigcartel.com/) All of the proceeds are going towards charity to be split between the [Homeless Black Trans Women Fund](https://www.gofundme.com/f/homeless-black-trans-women-fund) and the [Yemen Relief and Reconstruction Foundation](https://yemenfoundation.org/). I'm so grateful to have collaborated on our zine piece with the incredibly talented writings of @thenightwindow and gorgeous illustrations from @schratfield <3
> 
> To all my readers, thank you so much for going on this journey with me and reading my fic! Please stay safe out there, stand up for your convictions, continue to cherish the loved ones in your life, and hold fast to happiness when it's within reach. I love you all!


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